Second
by SkyKissed
Summary: The Lady Sif and the trickster god saw eye to eye on precious little but here they were in agreement. His brother was blind. Prefilm, one sided Thor/Sif, one sided Sif/Loki.


**A/N:** Still love these two, can't deny it. A brief little one sided Thor/Sif and one sided Sif/Loki set sometime before the events of either film.

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**SECOND**

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The royal courtyard is surprisingly empty when she finally returns to Asgard. Songs fill the air, loud and victorious and looping in on one another, but they serve as little more than a back note to the tired warrior. The one thing that matters, perhaps the only thing, is that she is alone. After so many weeks on the front lines this is a welcome change of pace, one she sorely needs. With a soft grunt, she adjusts the shield on her back. She feels its weight all too keenly. She feels the dirt and grime on her skin, the blood which has long since dried beneath her armor.

The Lady Sif is quite the sight then, epitomizing her namesake in looks if not in spirit. No, she is too tired for that. After months spent fighting, too many sleepless nights, she finds the thought of another battle leaves her drained.

"You've returned early."

The familiar voice leaves her stopping abruptly, surprisingly soft in the otherwise bombastic night. It is a welcome change. Sif forces herself to smile, pushing down the various aches a moment. The woman links her hands at the small of her back, moving towards the man's seat without second thought. For all her exhaustion, she is almost grateful to see him. Perhaps more so than had it been anyone else.

It does not surprise her, not as greatly as it should, that she finds Loki here rather than indulging in the festivities. He has never been much for them, preferring to perform for those he has personally chosen as his companions. The prince looks wildly out of place, his overly large body looking cramped at the foot of the statue. He is paler than she remembers, the hair a bit longer and more wild, but it is still Loki. Precisely as he's ever been, too observant for his own good.

It has never served him well.

Loki watches her with curious eyes, the book all but forgotten in his lap, a dagger hanging limply from his grasp. At one time she might have warned him of it, perhaps chastised him for his laxness. Now she knows better. It is simply his way, the constant appearance of indolence lending him some perceived armor. He tilts his head, still waiting for her answer. The warrior simply shrugs, her eyes narrowing.

"The All Father had need of Thor."

"Yes, need of my brother but not of you," the teasing lilt to his tone intensifies somewhat. With a little chuckle, he snaps his book shut, rising in one fluid motion. The right corner of his lips twitches up somewhat, dipping his head as he closes the distance between them, "I have never known you to return from a revelry early. Certainly not when a battle is so hard won."

"Things change, Odin Son. And perhaps you are not so perceptive as you like to think."

He scoffs, "Unlikely." His eyes widen before narrowing, too much mischief playing about his angular features as he closes on her. There is nothing overly unfriendly there, simply searching her face to see if there is truth behind his accusation, "Is it a _boy_, Sif?" He drags out every syllable, leaving her chuckling at his assumption. Her friend takes a step nearer, looking her over once more. A constant ritual for them upon her successful return. He had remarked once that she was not as cautious as she ought to be, always missing cuts and bruises which needed tending. The honest truth is she's never _needed_ to catch them. The second son of Odin, while not their greatest warrior, is far more suited to fuss over her various hurts, "Has some lucky Asgardian has captured the ice maid's heart?"

She swats his hand away as he reaches for her arm (there is an impressive gash spanning her bicep, stinging now that she lacks the benefit of adrenaline), "_Ice _maid?"

"Fit to rival Jotunheim itself."

The warrior scowls at him (unable to put as much force behind the look as she would like, her lips threatening to turn in a smile). "It is not a _boy_, Loki. Simply exhaustion."

It tastes a clumsy lie even as it trips off her own tongue. He will undoubtedly notice (as he notices all things, the blue eyes ever watchful) but does not comment, an odd gravity overcoming him. His features look more sallow in that moment, aging slightly as he sighs, moving nearer to the palisade. The shift does not mark the end of their conversation (that would be far too simple), only a transitioning, his good humor suffering. Sif has since learned the danger of leaving him with his thoughts, letting him stew over perceived problems.

She imagines she hears the heavy clink of armor behind her, turns without thinking. It's only habit now, looking to see if perhaps he's coming. There is nothing, only an empty hall, the sound of far off music still drifting through the air. And her friend's chuckle, blending seamlessly with the more melodic sounds.

He seems so poorly suited for the scene, the blacks and greens of his outfit standing out too starkly amidst the gold and red of their home. The young man is somehow a sore point in the evening light, too angular in the otherwise soft world. He smooths a hand over the railing, watching the waters stretched out before them. The city below may be alive with life but the ocean is desolate, the majority of their scouts called in for rest. It lends an odd, and much welcomed, sensation of peace flowing through her. Even he seems to notice this. Loki speaks so softly that she has to strain to catch his words.

"My brother is blind."

The lady tilts her head, watching him carefully as he moves to lean against the parapet, all easy, lazy grace. His words are honeyed but she knows better than to trust him. The trickster god rarely says what he means. Even then only when it works to his benefit. "I cannot know what you mean, Loki."

"Oh, you know what I speak of very well, Sif," he turns just enough to smile at her, the overly angular features twisted in an ugly mimicry of a happiness. There is too much bitterness, an odd, soul deep grief she does not remembering seeing before. It leaves him looking...haggard, more aged than he has any right being. The younger Odin son sighs, watching the placid waters stretching out before them, "Your _dilemma _does not go unnoticed."

She sighs, leaning more heavily against the railing, suddenly feeling very tired. The bruises dotting her figure begin to throb, the dull ache reminding her that she should have retired hours before. Even she can hear the marked difference in her own words, however. It is not exhaustion when she speaks, not a physical weariness. There is only a more palpable sort of...resignation. The woman runs her thumb idly over the wall, "You see many things, Odin son. Not all are there."

"You would be better served leaving the lies to me, lady. They suit you ill."

She hums, not in perfect concession, reaching out to pluck at one of the golden motes drifting in the fading sunlight. It is preferable to answering the man and far superior to considering the feels still clawing their way through her head. She has spent too many hours alone with them already.

"It is my brother, is it not?"

Her nails bite into her palms, the hint of pain a stabilizing element as she watches the water once more. There are ships dotting the harbor, looking small and impossibly serene amidst the twilight. She focuses on this, allowing it to lend her strength instead of the jumble of her thoughts. The uncertainty is still despicable to the independent woman.

She should be used to it now, this near constant feeling of...disappointment seems an unkind word but there it is. She is not grieved so much as disappointed, in herself more than him. The warrior sighs, leaning beside her friend. He is chill, as he ever is, but the sensation is welcome now on her bruised skin. Sif shifts her weight one foot to the other, chuckling despite herself, "At least have the courtesy to look surprised."

"Alas, I find I cannot." He nudges her shoulder with his own, "You are too much the warrior. Subtlety is not in your nature."

"We do not all have your guile, Loki."

He smiles, dipping his head. The music swells behind them, concluding with the triumphant laughter of their comrades. All enjoying themselves more than they ought. Any other night she would prefer to count herself among them. There is too much pity in his face when he finally turns to look at her properly, "I cannot say I envy your choice."

"That makes two of us."

She is not entirely certain the elder brother is even _capable_ of seeing her in such a light. Or if he is even aware that she is more than a friend or a warrior. If so, he has shown no note of it. Certainly no note of changing this. His brother's eyes are saddened as they fix on her, nodding slowly to confirm her thoughts.

In that moment he does sound genuinely regretful, even apologetic for her situation. No tricks, no silver tongue. Loki chuckles, though there is little mirth there, "My dear brother, for all his virtues, cannot see that which is already before him. He will set his eyes elsewhere. And they will pass over you, time and again."

She cannot deny the validity of his words. Whatever her...feelings (and she is still loathe to refer to them as such), she is not clouded to Thor's faults. He is too impulsive, too short sighted, to think of her in such a manner. Her role was cast far too long ago. Lady Sif, a constant companion and a truer friend than any. Anything more than that would not fit the mold she has occupied for centuries. This is not a new truth but somehow…it helps to hear, even as it tears at her.

It hurts, but it is a cleaner hurt and if she is bleeding than at least it is a fresh cut and not the festering sensation she's held in her gut for so long. Her friend watches her still, the blue eyes narrowed slightly in either question or concern. "And what would you suggest, Loki? You have an eventuality for all things, do you not?"

"Not all things," he shrugs, the movement so poorly suited to the elegant creature, as if his overly long limbs are not quite suited for it. Her friend fixes her with a serious glance, still attempting to gauge her reaction, speaking lowly, "Follow my brother's example, perhaps. Look elsewhere. With luck, it shall not be as disappointing as you fear."

She is absently aware of the truth in his words (such a rare thing for the trickster, no doubt reflecting the severity of her situation), every syllable ringing with a crushing severity in the back of her skull. Her mind registers them put they are less welcome in her heart. The fool, childish, love has had so many years to spread it's roots, shooting its tendrils to her very core. "Perhaps," Sif casts him a nearly sad glance, "I do not know that I can."

"Of course," the second son of Odin looks nearly regretful in that moment, the emotion flickering over his typically impassive features too quickly for her to properly catch. It's nothing more than flicker in his eyes, the line of his jaw harder and his posture straightening. He stands tall as he nods, voice far too grave (laced with that bitterness), "There are few who could compare to the first born of Odin. All others would seem... poor substitutes."

They stand in silence for a time, watching the waters stretched out before them. She leans against his side, welcoming the coolness of his skin, the steady, even breathing somehow more calming than the serene horizon before them. Sif sighs, feeling her exhaustion once again, reaching up to give his shoulder a delicate shove, "You are a true friend, Loki."

He chuckles, reaching out to tug on a stray piece of her hair, the dark locks owed exclusively to one of his more mischievous moments, "I serve as I can, Lady."

She supposes that is enough. The Lady gives his arm a final squeeze, flashing him a quick smile before returning inside. The second Son of Odin remains where he is for a long while after, expression bitter as he watches the glassy water below, the sunlight fading over Asgard.


End file.
